


Ghost's Rebellion

by vogue91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Introspection, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: I’m not weak. I’m just aware, more than a lot of them much older than me, who seek in violence a raison d’etre which can’t possibly exist.





	Ghost's Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Ghost, Coffin, Ship, Fingers, Castle, Mattress, Empty

There’s too much anger around me.

Too much pain.

So much that I can almost be indifferent to it, I can almost overthink that what’s around me is burning, while I seem to be immune to flames.

Then, finally, I understand why.

Regulus Black doesn’t exist anymore. He stopped existing when that cursed wand laid on his arm, as if it wanted to penetrate his flesh, marking him of his own idiocy, in a symbol that wasn’t going to go away, and that would’ve kept making him feel cannon fodder till the end of his days.

Regulus Black doesn’t exist anymore, and I’m the ghost of the boy he’s been.

And yet, as a ghost, I’ve never stopped talking, talking incessantly, to find someone to truly understand what we were doing, understand that there was no need at all to spill all that blood.

But power’s malice is too big for someone to see how illusory it is, that it doesn’t belong to us, that we’re destined to last but a moment in his mad battle, and then being erased from existence in the blink of an eye.

I look at all my companions of misfortune, unaware of what they’re facing, and I almost feel sorry for them, as much as I feel for me.

I’m inside a war I’m against, and yet when I try to express my discontent, an emptiness creates around me, filled only with scornful gazes that call me weak, that makes me even more miserable than I already am.

I’m not weak. I’m just aware, more than a lot of them much older than me, who seek in violence a raison d’etre which can’t possibly exist.

I had sought it too, some time ago, before I understood it’s not possible to succeed when you’re in chains, when lack of freedom chokes you, when you can’t choose your side just because you’ve made one, huge mistake.

Believing in what the Dark Lord says, always believing in it, as if it was a mantra walking alongside our days and thoughts, even the most hidden ones.

We’re like blank pages, white, and he’s already written his story on it, and he won’t restrain from burning us to pieces when we’ll take the quill to write our own destinies.

I’m doing it, and it’s just a matter of time before he realizes he’s not the puppeteer behind my strings anymore.

I turn around on the mattress I’m laid on, torturing its weaves with my fingers, venting my hatred and my fear on it, as if it was my own deathbed.

The castle I thought I had built was slowly crumbling down, up to the point of digging a hole inside of me.

And I was alone, in the cold and darkness; and I already knew I wasn’t going to survive, that I was going to pass into that very same ice.

 

~

 

The ghost is in his last abode, now. He can still feel his fingers, he can feel the roughness of the rocks around him, they hurt him, they make him spill all the blood he had jealously saved until now.

It won’t last long.

I turn to face Kreacher, glaring at him because he keeps complaining.

I pity him, but he cannot know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.

He’s just a House Elf, the umpteenth slave who can’t see the invisible hand weighing on his head.

I walk, oblivious to the damp and darkness, focusing on my goal, as I’ve been taught to.

I reach the small boat docked to a spike, swallowing as if I were in front of the biggest of ships.

I’m not even allowed a Caron to tell me this is my last journey, into the worst of hells. I only have Kreacher, who keeps torturing his fingers, just because he can’t disobey my orders, even though it’s the thing he desires the most right now.

We start to cross the lake, and every ripple, every rivulet hurt me like a stab in the centre of my chest.

That rotten water is the last thing I’m going to see, I know that, the hopes of surviving that crazy gesture I was about to make grow slighter and slighter.

When I finally reach the opposite shore, I look at the waters and I see them.

Souls. Skeletons. Hands and bodies raising from the water as looking for air, even though they don’t need it.

“I’m coming.” I whisper, closing my eyes for a split second.

 

~

 

I’m alone.

Kreacher has left, not without other whimpering.

But it’s what I want.

Alone in death, as alone I’ve been through life.

This is my silent rebellion, Voldemort, against you who thought me so stupid to give myself defenceless to your remonstrations, to your tortures.  

You’re not so invincible, are you now?

A piece of your soul is going away, while mine starts crumbling.

Hurt by a ghost. How does it feel?

My limbs slip, swallowed by that liquid and rotten coffin.

I don’t have time to scream, nor I want to.

I don’t want time, I want for these souls to feed on my body quickly, giving me some peace, the one I wasn’t able to obtain during my life.

I can’t feel anything anymore, I part from my body in a gentle way, and I abandon this Earth.

Today, a ghost dies.


End file.
